


Clint hates playing Truth or Dare

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Clint Feels, Clint Has Issues, Deaf Clint, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Crack, Insecure Clint, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, What Happened in Budapest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1555394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Avengers play truth or dare.<br/>When Tony finally gets his turn (after kissing Natasha and escaping with most of his manhood and none of his dignity intact), he predictably dares Clint to kiss Coulson.<br/>Clint doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clint hates playing Truth or Dare

**Author's Note:**

> Started out as cracky fluff, ended up as fluffy angst. This is why I don't put fics down halfway through.  
> This fic features references to non-graphic, non-consensual sexual acts (not Clint/Coulson), and non-graphic self harm, as well as implied mentions of suicide. More detailed (and spoilery) warnings are featured in the end notes.
> 
> Enjoy.

Clint blames Bruce for this.

"I hate Truth or Dare," he grumbles, burying his head in his hands, and Natasha mercilessly prods at his arm.

"It's your fault for falling prey to temptation and joining in," she reminds him, as if Clint needs another reminder of how stupid his decision was.

He settles for a muffled, "Dare."

Pepper hums, thinking, before her eyes light up. "I dare you to tell us about happened in Budapest."

Clint really wants to skip this (they'd established a three-skip and a hard-cap rule, in deference to the individual state of "fucked up" of each Avenger), but he raises his head to glance at Nat, for confirmation, and her eyes quickly flick to Phil. When he looks back at Pepper, he lets his gaze linger for a moment, mapping the contours of Phil's jaw, flitting over the gentle panes of his face, drinking in those addictive blue eyes.

 _Phil wants to know_ , Clint realizes. He's probably held himself back, out of respect for Clint's wishes, after the one time Clint asked him to back off, pleaded with him to leave it alone, still broken, still damaged, still tainted after all of his steaming hot showers, scrubbing his skin so viciously he'd drawn blood, cleaning himself again and again, until... until Phil. Clint owes him this much.

"Nat and I went off grid." he explains briefly, and because it's not exactly worded like a truth, he doesn't mention that they were forced to do it, that their temporary handler was a leak, that their safehouse had been compromised. "Nat took a bullet wound to the stomach, and I had to bribe a local to house her."

Phil's eyes widen ever so slightly, and Clint knows he's made the connection, because Phil was there when they left, Phil was there when they came back, Phil was there, at the final safehouse, holding Clint as he broke down and collapsed, quivering, into his arms, his arms covered in short, shallow lacerations. Phil was the one who carefully poured water into Clint's too dry mouth, and held his head over the toilet bowl when he couldn't keep it down, and whispered, _I'm here, you're safe, I'm here_ , over and over again until Clint finally believed it, finally trusted him, could finally fall asleep without waking up screaming in the middle of the night.

Natasha nods approvingly as Pepper frowns. "I thought that would be more dramatic," she admits, and Natasha bumps their shoulders together.

"I can tell you my end of the story over coffee sometime," she offers, voice low and husky, and Pepper grins contentedly. Clint takes a moment to contemplate the havoc a Pepper/Tasha team could wreak upon the world and lets himself shudder because some things are just terrifying.

"Your turn, Clint," Steve cajoles, earnest, and Clint sneaks another quick look at Phil, entertaining his fantasy for a moment longer. _"_ _Truth or dare, Phil?" "Dare." "I dare you to..."_

This is where Clint runs out of steam. What if he dares Phil to kiss him, and Phil does it, mechanically, and his kind eyes (always so _kind_ , even when he's furious and crucifying Clint for disobeying direct his eyes still glimmer with banked kindness, because they both know the only times Clint disobeys is to save lives) will shine with rejection Clint can't handle, can't even bear contemplating?

He heaves a breath, and Natasha rolls her eyes exasperatedly.

Tony coughs pointedly. "Ahem."

Clint stares at him, and Tony plasters on a (fake) winning smile.

"Steve, truth or dare?" Clint asks, and Tony scowls, because everyone apart from him has had a turn - Bruce has had five, since everybody wanted to draw a reply from the normally-silent scientist, who, in turn, managed to get Pepper to flash New York City, glean Phil's favorite color (purple, which Clint is afraid of drawing conclusions from), and, after a few false starts, extract the fact that Clint apparently has a crush. Clint won't confirm nor deny it, because lying by omission isn't _really_ lying, but he knows keeping silent isn't much better.

"Truth," Steve says innocently, and Clint feels guilty for what he wants to ask. Just a bit.

He asks it anyway. "Are you straight?"

Steve flushes, a violent, tomato red, and looks away, murmuring something that may or may not be a "No," and Clint curses his hearing aids (not for the first or last time). Steve's answer is confirmed by Tony's gleeful expression, but before he can do so much as take a deep breath, Steve turns to Thor.

"Thor, truth or dare?" he asks.

"Truth!" Thor booms excitedly.

Steve smiles, unexpectedly sly, and Clint has to give him props, he's as subtle as a charging rhino but the kid can change a subject. "Why do you like PopTarts so much?"

Thor's expression grows far off and distant. "When I was nary but a young boy," he thunders, voice as soft as he can make it, which, with Thor, still hovers at headache-inducing, "My father told tale of a-"

"Yes, we get it," Tony cuts in, having obviously grown impatient, and Thor blinks at him owlishly. "Your dad told you a story, and at the end, you ate something that tasted like PopTarts, and now you like them, yeah?"

Thor shakes his head. "I was referring to their hallucinogenic properties," he rumbles, and Clint is about to question him further because what when Thor turns to Tony, who preens under the attention. Tony never misses a chance to preen.

"Friend Tony, truth or dare?"

Tony's eyes gleam wickedly. "Dare."

Clint sometimes forgets that behind the rambunctious, loud exterior lies a mind of a master strategist and hardened warrior. "Kiss the fair Natasha," Thor instructs, smug, and Tony immediately pales.

When Natasha smiles at him, all teeth and no mirth, promising an eternity of pain, Tony actually squeaks, and a sound suspiciously similar to a snort emanates from Phil's general direction, where he's ~~suspiciously~~ studiously examining the ceiling.

"Accepted," Tony huffs, steeling himself, before taking Natasha's hand and placing a quick peck to the back of it. Clint is struck by a pang of longing for popcorn, because this is gonna be good.

Natasha stares at him, then at her hand, then back at Tony, and her face curves into a wide, wide grin. "Kneel before me, minion," she commands, and Tony stares until her gaze hardens, before sinking to his knees, baring his neck, cowering.

"Repeat after me: _I am not worthy, mistress_."

"Natasha, I don't really think-" Steve starts, but Clint hurriedly shushes him, unwilling for his fun to be interrupted.

" _What_?! Why the hell do I-" Tony swallows when a knife embeds itself in the floor, and Clint fights back a laugh, because really, Tash? " _I am not worthy, mistress_."

"Good." Natasha smirks, and the knife disappears, dulled silver gleaming briefly as she fiddles with her boots. "Pay up, Hawkeye."

"I'm never betting against you again," Clint grumbles, smacking a ten dollar bill into her outstretched palm, and Natasha winks before slinking back, slipping beside Pepper as Tony blinks, bewildered.

"That's what you always say," Phil remarks dryly, and Clint scowls at him.

"Hey, I won last time," he reminds him, and Phil smiles - _Phil is smiling at him_ \- and Clint is completely unprepared for how quickly his heart races.

"That you did," Phil says, quietly, and Clint knows Phil knows, knows how Clint refused to believe Phil was dead, scouring the helicarrier for clues, for anything, before finally finding a paper trail, following it to its conclusion, accosting Fury only to be greeted by a dry "Finally." and directions to a medical ward in New York.

"Wait, you guys were betting on me?" Tony says, and for a genius, he sure is slow on the uptake sometimes. Clint doesn't even bother hiding his snort.

Tony scowls at him. "Truth or dare, Katniss," he hisses, and Clint, after a moment of consideration ( _"Who do you have a crush on?"_ ) goes with, "Dare."

Clint is unpleasantly taken aback by the victorious smirk that breaks across Tony's face. "Kiss Coulson!" he crows, and Clint knows he intends it as a prank, probably imagining Clint drooling on the floor as Phil catches up with Supernanny and Jersey Shore and whatever reality TV show he's become addicted to this week. He knows that there's no way Tony can know how much Clint is afraid of this, afraid of publicly displaying the feelings he's harbored for Phil and kept painfully hidden for so long (so fucking _long_ ), but Clint knows, deep down, that he can't do it.

If he doesn't kiss Phil, the truth Tony will go for (in accordance with their modified rules) is "Why?", and Clint won't lie, can't lie to Phil, so he'll stay silent again, which is just as blatant as the truth. And if he kisses Phil... Phil will _know_.

"So, Merida?" Tony leers. "What are you waiting for?"

Clint catches Phil's eye. Phil has his impassive mask on, as usual, but he's still in pain from his recovery, still unused to human contact this soon after being extracted by Tony (after a heated yelling match at Fury in which even Bruce lost his cool and went outside for a short time-out), only a few days out from the hospital, and Clint can read his tells, clear as day.

Phil is _worried_ , obviously worried that Clint will kiss him, and Clint knows, he _knows_ that Phil doesn't want it, doesn't want him, and his heart breaks. He won't make Phil reject him, won't force Phil to humiliate himself in front of an audience, no matter how small, so he does the next best thing, what he's done ever since he was woken up in the middle of the night by drunken yells of rage and the sound of bottles smashing.

Clint flees.

He's already in the vent, escaping, when he hears a sharp smack, a high-pitched yelp, and Natasha growling, "Dumbass," but he doesn't have the time to relish it, doesn't have the time to wait because, _oh god, what if they come after him, the vents are his safe place, his solace, he has to run he has to hide he has to disappear and go quiet because when you're not there they can't hurt you_ so he lets his instincts take over and heads for safety.

Clint isn't surprised when his panicked, half-formed thoughts lead him directly to Phil's room ( _kind warm hug safe protect want love_ ), but it's only when he detaches himself from the ceiling and makes his way to the bed, intending to curl up underneath it because _small places are safe, tight places are safe, no one can hurt you once you're in there_ that a figure unfurls from the chair its been sitting on.

Clint curses his instincts for not identifying the threat, but he knows it's useless, because it's _Phil_. Phil isn't a threat, will never _be_ a threat, and Clint trusts him more than he trusts himself. Trusts him more than he's ever let himself trust anyone, and sometimes he lays awake at night, when the nightmares are too much, and thanks everything he can think of for not letting Phil die, for keeping Phil alive, because Clint can't imagine living without Phil and never wants to try.

He doesn't know what he would've done if he'd found Phil in the morgue. He knows what he would have _tried_ to do, but he knows Nat would've stopped him, taken him away and kept him safe until the world wasn't terrifyingly cruel and hurting and painful, but he doesn't know what would've happened next.

"Clint." Phil says, and Clint drops down onto the bed, resigned, because Phil only calls him by his first name when he's serious. "Clint," Phil says again, and if Clint hadn't known him so well, he'd say Phil is delighting in it, drawing out the sound, playing with the consonants, relishing the feel of it on his tongue. "Why wouldn't you kiss me?"

Clint closes his eyes, can't look at him, can't bare any more of his bruised heart, but he finally chokes out, "You know why."

The floor creaks slightly, the sound distorted in Clint's ears, and he grimaces instinctively until a familiar hand ( _patting his back, holding him tight_ ) cups his cheek. "I want to hear you say it," Phil whispers, and Clint's heart sinks, because he never thought Phil could be like _them_ , he never thought Phil could be cruel.

"I couldn't kiss you because-" Clint stops, bracing for the blow, before quickly ploughing on, tearing off the band-aid, "I couldn't tell you I'm in love with you."

Phil sighs softly. "Budapest?" he murmurs, and Clint can't do anything more than nod.

"Me too," Phil breathes, and that's the only warning Clint gets before their mouths are crushed together, and his eyes fly open because _is this happening?_ and Phil is looking at him right back, blue eyes luminescent and beaming with love and joy and pride, and Clint can't help the desperate moan torn from his throat, pulling Phil closer, into his lap. Phil comes willing, all fluid grace and no awkwardness, tugging Clint into a tight embrace, one hand on his nape and the other on the small of his back, pulling his fingers through stray strands of Clint's hair, before Phil changes his angle, tilting Clint's face up into a searing, open-mouthed kiss, licking into Clint's mouth, laving across his tongue with an intoxicating sweetness that leaves Clint dizzy from how _Phil_ it tastes laced with the barest bitter undercurrent of black coffee, and Clint has to pull away to take a deep, shuddering breath, because, as it turns out, kissing Phil makes his respiratory system forget how to function. From Phil's breathless pants, Clint isn't the only one struck by this unexpected affliction.

"What?" Clint tries, as articulate as always, and Phil chuckles weakly, and Clint is close enough to see the pores of Phil's skin, pale against the dark of his lashes, close enough to see the worry and fear of rejection glimmering in his eyes, close enough to see diffused motes of silver bursting to life in his irises as Clint leans even closer, the faint rasp of Phil's stubble against his chin, feeling more than hearing Phil's tiny, heaving breaths, and in a single, jerky motion, Clint leans into him again, slow and soft, letting himself smile into the kiss.

"It's okay," he murmurs, when Phil draws back, their lips parting with the faintest of touches, and Phil shakes his head ruefully.

"No, it's not," he breathes, and rests his head against Clint's shoulder. "I knew you were attracted to me, and heaven knows I was attracted to you, but I could've- I should've-"

Clint can't help his fond smile. "It's not your fault." he whispers, and carefully brushes Phil's hair. "I wasn't ready, and you were too kind to put me on the spot, too kind to force me to show my heart." he swallows, still terrified of admitting it to himself, terrified of admitting it to Phil, but he forges onwards, voice barely more than an exhalation, fuzzy and crackling in his own ears, "I'm barely ready now."

Phil turns to look at him, really look at him, with the piercing stare that makes Clint always feel like his inner workings are laid bare, and revealed, and it takes all of his will to keep still, to take deep, slow breaths, because if he gives Phil his heart, Phil can break him ( _just like everyone else_ ). And if Phil breaks him, Clint isn't sure if there will be anything left to pick up the pieces.

It takes a moment for Clint to notice the subtle differences in Phil's contemplation of him, the slightest softening of his gaze, the vulnerability etched across his features, the unbanked, open emotions flickering in his eyes, and the realization is almost a physical blow. Phil trusts him with his own heart too, letting Clint see _everything_ , trusting him to keep it hidden.

"I want to do this," Clint confesses, and he winces at the undisguised longing coloring every word, defenseless and uncertain.

Phil nods. "So do I."

Clint braces himself, because he doesn't want to say this, doesn't want to let Phil in, but it's important for Phil to know, it's important for Phil to understand. "You'll have to-" he starts, and stops, trying to control his unsteady voice, and Phil's hand is suddenly on his, a warm, solid anchor, and Clint pulls himself together enough to continue. "You'll have to go slowly," he pleads, and closes his eyes, because he knows the dawning realization in Phil's eyes will be replaced with the pity he can't handle, the pity he doesn't want, and with disgust, with revulsion as he fully comprehends the scope of Clint's actions, of Clint's defects and his flaws and his _inadequacy_. Clint has already asked too much of Phil, let him give too much. Clint has lived for the stolen moments of comfort in an abandoned safehouse, clutched to Phil's chest as the sobs wrack his body, the body that refuses to come clean, corrupted and defiled, the payment for Natasha's life.

He counts to a heartbeat, then two, and his heart sinks, because he knew it would be too much for Phil to deal with, too much to ask of the only person who has ever bothered giving him the time of day, and he prepares for Phil to rise, for the fuzzy and distorted squeak of the bedsprings, as-

Phil's arms wrap around him, and pull him close, clenching around him, taut and rigid, holding him fast, burying his face in Clint's neck, and when Phil's shoulders shake, ever so slightly, Clint realizes that he made Phil _cry_ , that Phil is crying for _him_. "Of course, Clint," Phil promises into Clint's skin, breath seeping through the fabric of his worn shirt, in dizzying contrast through the moisture of his eyes, "Of _course_."

Clint's eyes are wet, with a dull, slow burn, as painful as the ache lodged deep in his throat, and he pulls Phil up and kisses him, unable to give him the right words or any words at all, desperately hoping to communicate even the barest fraction of the roiling feelings caged inside his too-tight chest, how treasured Phil makes him feel.

Clint loses all sense of time, all sense of time and place, Phil the only constant in his world, and he doesn't know how long they stay there, locked around each other, until finally, Phil draws back with a soft, shaky huff of laughter.

"Have you changed your mind about Truth or Dare?" he asks, dabbing at his eyes, and Clint hides his lips in the crook of Phil's jaw and _smiles_. 

**Author's Note:**

>  **WARNINGS** :  
> In my version of Budapest, Clint is forced into having sex in order to save Natasha's life.  
> Clint does not explicitly consent to the sexual act, and it has lasting mental and physical trauma which leads him to engage in mild self harm (slightly graphic, no gore). This can imply, at best, dubious consent, and at worst, a complete lack of consent.  
> Additionally, when attempting to picture his life without Phil, Clint hints at attempting to kill himself, seeing no point in living without him, but mentioning that Natasha would stop him from doing it.
> 
> Please take care if the above may even remotely trigger you and keep your own mental health in consideration at all times.
> 
> If you feel like I have not properly presented or tagged the issues described in this story, please leave me a comment so I can rectify my error as soon as possible. Thank you.


End file.
